While this was a fanciful retrospective of Syed’s chicken atrocity, Simon’s phallic trampoline screwing and Rachel’s teeth-curling dance it was largely ruined by the appalling talking heads.
Michelle Mone and the ex-Dragon with the shepherd’s crook sideburns and complexion of the Somme are among those baleful business abominations who have opulent wardrobes, are doused and stitched with the best cosmetic surgery, yachts that stretch the length of a small lagoon, and some even own islands but at the root of their avarice for material goods is that they are emotionally handicapped and long ago lost the sensation of emotion. Despite all their untold millions of pounds, they cannot accumulate between them a single grain of humanity and would be better off being dumped in landfill sites where the stench of their greed would provide a natural deterrent for scavenging seagulls.
Ruth Badger still speaks in that clubfoot monotone that sounds as if she’s pushing a condemned man off the gallows to hang on the end of a rope.
Brian Sewell, just because a sewer is plated in gold it doesn’t mean that the shit spewing out of it is any more palatable, while his eyes lie in his skull like portions of unfinished chips tossed into the gutter by clubbers staggering home at 3am.
Lynne Franks resembles a piece of tree bark that has learned how to talk.
Mark Frith has such a cerebral vacuum behind his play-dead eyes that you could give impervious shelter to the whole of the Sahara Desert seeking sanctuary from a dogged Gestapo death squad.